


Contain Thee

by MrsNoggin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Light BDSM, M/M, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Submissive Crowley, Wings, actually pretty soft I'm just a careful tagger, but it's all ok, loving rough sex, possibly undernegotiated kink, powers in the bedroom, so so much love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28128639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin
Summary: Crowley was going to die. He was dying. It was magnificent. Best death he’d ever had.In which powers are used in the bedroom. A fairly successful experiment, one might say. (Nobody dies, a good time is had by all, lovely).For Lit as part of the OLHTS server holiday gift exchange.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 184
Collections: "O Lord Heal This Gift Exchange 2020" [OLHTS discord server]





	Contain Thee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/gifts).



> Happy Christmas Lit! You are a true gem and I adore you. I hope this ticks a box or two. Thank you for EVERYTHING!
> 
> Also thanks to [Snoggy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/) and [EnglandWouldFall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall) for the beta and general life support. 
> 
> This is a fic for the Holiday Gift Exchange on OLHTS discord server. Y'all know who you are and what you do to me and I don't deserve you.

* * *

It started with laughter. With oddly soothing wing-grooming and trusting semi-nudity. With a playful tussle and a mock-wrestling match.

“You know this,” Aziraphale gestured, down at their bodies, the situation they were in - half-nude, winged, bodies close. “Makes me think of the statue.”

“The…” Crowley realised what he was referring to and grinned. Well, well. There was a thought. He spun, grabbed Aziraphale around his middle and flopped them both onto the bed. Aziraphale snorted, immediately wrapping strong thighs around Crowley’s hips and heaving them over to swap their positions. They were both laughing.

It didn’t end that way.

* * *

The weight on Crowley’s back wasn’t what was pinning him; it was the muscle behind it. The strength. He arched his back, pushing up against it, to no avail. Aziraphale let out a small grunt and shoved him back down, used the grip around his wrist to pull a long, lean arm further back alongside them. Crowley’s whole front was pressed into the mattress and he blamed that for the noise that escaped him. Just a displacement of air, unfortunately catching his vocal chords on the way out. Except it wasn’t. It was actually a moan, long and rumbling.

“Do you yield?” Aziraphale mocked.

“No,” he breathed. Struggled a bit more, just to feel the fingers tighten around his arm, the strain in his muscles as it was twisted a little in the wrong direction.

Crowley bit the edge of the pillow, teeth tearing into the fabric. He tried to get his other arm under him to push up, but that was caught too, before he could even half achieve the movement. He felt what little breath he had left leave him in a huff through his nose. Completely pinned. He had never been more _thrilled._

It was more than arousing; it was possibly wrecking him somewhat. His hips were shifting of their own accord, nudging into the slight give of the mattress. The friction was lacklustre, the sheets slipping with him rather than against him, the fabric of his jeans too thick for satisfaction, but it was the fact that his movements were so limited, that he couldn’t do any better, that was making it so much better.

“Oh, you filthy—” Aziraphale leaned lower to growl in his ear. Crowley suspected that ear was slightly more pointed than usual, because he seemed to be losing full control of this corporation; his teeth too jagged, his eyes burning as they blazed full yellow. Aziraphale managed to sound entirely unaffected and vaguely disgusted, though they both knew he was neither. “Do you _like_ this?”

“Do _you_?”

Aziraphale scoffed, which made Crowley smile, sharp and sinful.

“Pretty sure that’s not your flaming sword I can feel against my arse, _Angel_ .” He made an effort to use that name as he probably was meant to originally - as a title, a term, an insult, flung through curled lips with a flick of revolted tongue. It wasn’t easy. It _was_ easy to roll his spine though, curve his backside up against the length of hot pressure on the curve of his left buttock, to steer it into the centre where it nestled in the crack of his arse. He gave a little rock or two to welcome it.

One of his wrists was released as Aziraphale used a hand to lift his weight away. A stupid mistake, because Crowley snuck his arm immediately under his chest and shoved backwards, sending them both into another tumble. They crashed to the floor this time. It was oddly therapeutic, this almost fighting, but with no actual threat. Crowley managed to get himself on top only through snakey wriggling. He knew his strength was no good here, the last three minutes restrained on the bed had made that clear. He could be overpowered any second. His advantage was speed. And cunning. And cheating.

He tipped down and pressed his mouth to Aziraphale’s, sucked at his lip for a second before summoning a little hellfire spark and shooting it through the contact.

Aziraphale hit the back of his head on the floor yanking away. “Oh you absolute—”

Crowley slid his hand under the back of Aziraphale’s skull soothingly. “Demon?” He taunted. “You love this, throwing me around, don’t you? You have to know I’m going to fight back the only way I can.”

Regret came his way swiftly though, when a cord of holy energy wove itself easily around his left arm, tugged it out from under him, tipping him forwards onto Aziraphale’s chest. It pulled his hand around behind his back, followed by the other, and bound them tightly at the wrist in the small of his back. It didn’t hurt, as such, but Crowley’s body was exceptionally conscious of it, the power there, against his skin, pressing into the suddenly fragile knobbles of his wrists. He was slumped forward, so he used a bass beat of his wings to rear up, to kneel above Aziraphale in some kind of final show of defiance. He didn’t struggle against his bindings, which would be pointless. Aziraphale was still, watching, waiting.

Powers in the bedroom. Something they’d toyed with, occasionally tossed around the idea of, discussed faux-casually - wants and needs and safewords and hard limits, but never actually got around to. That had clearly been a mistake. Because Crowley was so into this he could feel his stupid heart pounding practically through his chest. And the glow of heat in Aziraphale’s chilled turquoise eyes was stunning.

So, this was a _Thing_.

Crowley liked _Things_.

He looked down at Aziraphale, who was still beneath him, but was also the one crackling celestial energy and pure power. It stung at Crowley’s skin. It prickled at his insides. He took absolute pleasure in lowering his gaze, submissive but also trailing his eyes down that fine, strong body. Skin like Magnolia petals, creamy soft and plush, cool to the touch but swift to pick up heat. Pure and pale, spreading pink with anticipation. Crowley snapped his teeth threateningly and watched the unflinching stillness beneath him. He let his shoulders strain, as though he was straining against the power holding him back.

“Ok, I yield.”

* * *

Somehow, managing to still appear graceful, Aziraphale slipped out from beneath him, getting to his feet to stand over him. Though Aziraphale’s form blocked the glare from the lamp, Crowley was not in shadow. Aziraphale emitted a whole different glow of his own. A light, Crowley knew, that would be burning his eyeballs right then, were he human. Light that no earthly eyes were meant to see. He should be threatened, cowering, but instead felt more sheltered, and perhaps that was something he should examine at a later date, probably when he felt particularly weak and self-loathing, or even particularly loved and cherished, because that happened now too. 

He shuffled forward on his knees, the discomfort on his joints oddly pleasant. Let Aziraphale touch his face, welcomed it - the soft stroke of fingertips, which slowly but surely turned into a firm grip around the cocky jut of his chin. His head was tipped back so Aziraphale could look down at him. Crowley obediently opened his lips for a demanding thumb, letting out a small whimper of protest as the soft vulnerable pad of it pressed onto the sharp point of a lower fang. _Don’t let me hurt you_ , he meant. He was shushed and soothed, and Aziraphale’s eyes did not leave his for a second.

“Settle and be good for me.”

Oh he would, he’d be the best he’d ever been. Especially when that thumb was pressing down on his tongue now, right in the centre, just above where it split itself in half. He let the ends of it curve around the welcome intruding digit. It made his belly burn: a shot of whisky taken too quickly, a missed step on a cliff-top path.

Crowley stayed precisely where he was, only sinking slightly onto his calves, lowering inch by inch until his mouth was level with Aziraphale’s prick, which was trying to stand tall and proud, but was hindered by light tan trousers. Then the grip on his tongue was released and he closed his eyes to better hear the sound of button and zip opening, fabric rustling and then silence. He immediately took the permission for what it was, bowed his head, and worshipped. Opened his mouth, took Aziraphale inside, offered adulations and exultations, affirmations of adoration with his lips, declarations of devotion in the twist of his tongue. He felt gentle fingers in his hair, coaxing him on, pressing into his scalp with affection. The sturdy curve of hips in front of him gave a little rock, Aziraphale’s prick sliding delightfully against the slick walls of Crowley’s mouth.

Aziraphale whispered softly, an indulgence, “Take it.”

Crowley was going to die. He was dying. It was magnificent. Best death he’d ever had. He couldn’t even breathe, and for some reason he suddenly felt like he needed to. But his useless lungs just stuttered. For a second, he forgot his arms were bound and he nearly fell over trying to get his hands on Aziraphale’s legs to hang on. In fact, he sort of did fall over, unbalanced himself and tipped forward, ended up in the remarkable position of a cock nudging at the back of his throat. Aziraphale pulled him back with his hands in Crowley’s hair.

“Ok?” Aziraphale checked urgently.

Crowley let his jaw hang open and tried to get back to where he had been. He managed eventually to drag his eyes away from the solid bar of dick in front of him, and look up to meet Aziraphale’s enquiring gaze. Words, however, were apparently beyond him, and he just managed a sort of humiliating grunt of demand, completely ignoring the fact that he could feel a trickle of saliva creeping from the corner of his mouth.

Aziraphale, of course, understood him immediately, and fed his cock straight back into Crowley’s open mouth. He paused to allow a swirl of tongue and then retreated once more.

“Do you want me to fuck your mouth, Crowley?”

It took Crowley a minute to find himself completely; he felt like his whole consciousness was about three inches to the left of himself and just out of his grasp. He grounded himself a little in the knot of power resting against the bony bumps of his wrists, the pins and needles tingle on his skin.

“Crowley?”

He wanted to be annoyed. He was fine. He was a demon for fuck’s sake; there was no need for this sort of concern, for this sort of thing. It was nothing, it was practically _tame_. If he didn’t want to be there, he would have just got up and walked away. Except then Aziraphale placed a cool dry palm on the heated, sweaty back of Crowley’s neck, and Crowley suddenly wondered if he’d ever be capable of movement again. He croaked out, “Yes. Thank you.”

“Well done, darling. You look so beautiful.”

How awful. Crowley hated it. He didn’t need encouragement and soft-spoken compliments. He wanted to be used and abused and roughed up and fucked up and _dominated_ . Except apparently his body wasn’t listening, because goosebumps had spread from the contact of the hand at the base of his skull, all the way down to his armpits, his chest. His stomach was doing an odd sort of flip-flopping motion inside of him. The whimper that came from his throat should have been embarrassing, but it earned him a soft _mm-hmm_ , so maybe he’d forgive it somewhat.

And then Aziraphale’s cock was back, stretching his lips open, to press inside. And it kept pressing, until it was firmly at the back of his mouth, forcing down into his throat. Aziraphale left it there until Crowley let out an eager gargling noise, and then he tipped back out. Oh yes. Crowley might have been losing his mind. There was no technique for him to concentrate on, he was just being used, a vessel to nestle one’s prick in. And out. And in.

He became suddenly aware that his own neglected erection was pulsating in the same rhythm, growing harder and hotter and… was it possible to come from having your face fucked? And just that? Except it wasn’t just that, was it? It was that, and the tight grasp of Holiness pulling his arms behind him, the sizzle of power tangible in the air around them, the crackle of invisible lightning emanating from the huge white wings behind the actual Angel in front of him. He could strike him down any second, he could actually pin him to the ground and do what he liked to him and Crowley would let him, would beg him for it. For a second he felt spread open, vulnerable and splayed, helpless. He gargled weakly against the spongy head at the back of his tongue and whipped his wings into nothingness behind him submissively.

_Oh shit_ , Crowley thought as loudly as possible, _Please come down my throat_.

Perhaps it was loud enough, because Aziraphale chuckled above him, took a firmer grasp on his hair, and fucked faster, and harder, until the slick sounds of Crowley’s mouth were overtaking his moans. He was speared and slayed and definitely dying that best death he’d ever had and if he could speak he’d have said ‘ _Thank you, Angel, thank you. I love you_.’

But then Aziraphale was retreating, still holding Crowley back so he couldn’t chase. He was on the verge of complaining, but was interrupted by Aziraphale’s calm and commanding, “On the bed.”

* * *

Alas, no. He could not. He couldn’t move. His body was in a weird place - lax and heavy and floppy - and his joints couldn’t seem to gather enough strength to do anything he asked of them. Any controlled movement was impossible. He turned pleading eyes up to his angel, who luckily realised the issue. Realised and solved, by simply picking him up, easily, scooped him into his solid arms and placed him gently on the bed, face and chest down, using his still bent knees to keep his backside propped up in the air. He was so gentle, so strong, so _Aziraphale_.

He was still a bastard though, and as he lifted his hands away, he let a zing of holy energy flow through his fingertips and zap at the flesh of Crowley’s arse. Even through denim it was like electrocution, but to the soul, and Crowley instantly reared up, a roar ripping from his throat. However, with the angle of his knees, and his wrists still bound, when he reached the apex of his movement, the only way to go was down, and he winced as he waited for the impact.

Except, except of course, Aziraphale had a hand under his belly and his entire weight was caught effortlessly. It was so fucking hot, the casual strength of him, that Crowley had to screw his eyes shut. He didn’t know if it was a conscious choice on Aziraphale’s part, but Crowley had never felt so small and frail and defenceless. Lucifer fucking Morningstar could fling fire and pain and death at him like fireworks and confetti, but Aziraphale could take Crowley to pieces with just a hand holding him up and _that_ was power he appreciated.

He leant back against the chest behind him, the hair on his belly tugging as Aziraphale’s hand slid downwards naturally with the movement, Crowley’s sweat slicking the way. He tipped his hips, encouraging the movement, and the bed dipped with the weight of Aziraphale’s knee as he rested his weight behind him. Crowley shuddered as the tip of that delightful nose trailed up the side of his neck.

Crowley didn’t know exactly what Aziraphale could see, looking over his shoulder, down the length of his body. But he could feel the weight of that gaze, focus heavy on his skin like a physical force pressing against him.

“So good for me,” Aziraphale murmured. He slipped his hand into jeans that were suddenly open at the fly, the warmth of his skin like a chill against the fire of Crowley. He took hold of his cock with delicate fingers, guided it out of the opening, carefully adjusted the wedged open zip under the weight of it, pressing into Crowley’s balls.

Crowley whined, and he’d happily admit it. And then Aziraphale took hold of him properly and pulled the grasp of his hand from bottom to top and Crowley’s head flopped back so he could pant upwards into the air, as if oxygen helped him at all. 

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale whispered.

His words were slurred and his voice was dry. Sand in his throat, grit and grain. “Wanted,” was the only one to successfully emerge.

“You are, so wanted, so, so wanted.”

“Soft.”

“Thought that was my job,” Aziraphale teased, softly. He nuzzled at Crowley’s jaw. “But it’s a good look on you, my darling. So good for me, you are, so soft for me.”

The words heated Crowley from the inside, swelling the cloudy pleasure in his belly like a water balloon - heavy and full. But nice, very very nice. So nice it made him grunt deep in his chest.

Aziraphale huffed a quiet laugh in his ear. “Nobody was ever as good to me as you, Crowley.” He paused to hear the light whimper. “Sometimes I wonder if you were made for me. Just for me.”

“Angel,” Crowley moaned. He shook his head a little, to try and find some sense.

“Settle, darling.”

Crowley took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, tried to relax his body again. And then he growled in frustration, but when he spoke it came out in a whine, “Angel, if you don’t bend me over and rail me into the mattress I think I might die.”

* * *

“I think you might have to do it,” Crowley admitted, when he was finally rid of his jeans and back down with his arse in the air. “I don’t think I can control anything right now.”

He meant cast a miracle, slick them up, maybe relax a muscle or two. It sounded like he meant more than that. He didn’t mind. He really didn’t mind much at all when Aziraphale pressed the blunt head of his prick against him and it became clear the miracle had only covered the slicking and he was going to be opened up by cock alone.

“Aw fuck yes.” He gritted his teeth and tipped his head back and relished every millimetre of the slow motion penetration. He was given a few seconds to adjust and then there was the slow drag of Aziraphale pulling out. Again, over and over, slow and controlled, until Crowley’s desperate impatience was pushing out of his chest, his throat. “Please,” he breathed.

Aziraphale took hold of Crowley’s wrists, still bound by invisible strength, and held him stable with them, pushed them down into the small of his back. Held him. Held him down. And then he fucked.

Quick thrusts in, long slow slides out and Crowley was practically keening into the pillows. The movements weren’t even that hard, but Crowley let his whole body jolt with each. He felt Aziraphale dig the fingers of his free hand into the back of Crowley’s thigh, just like he liked, but this wasn’t just a tight grip - it burned with holiness and there was a _blessing_ seeping into Crowley’s flesh and setting his nerve endings afire. It was a lot, it was so much. So much.

Crowley didn’t come in an explosion. He came in a long, intense, almost painful build up, his whole abdomen burning joy and shuddering pleasure. It kept pushing, higher and higher, until he thought he couldn’t possibly ever breach the heights he was reaching and he’d never find the actual end to tumble over.

“Yes, Crowley, come on, I can feel it, that’s it,” Aziraphale encouraged, pushed him, his own voice wavering as he cruised along his own edge. “So good.”

Crowley was frozen right there, there, just hanging, for a second, a full eternal second, and then it _crushed_ him.

* * *

The room was warm and quiet and Crowley came back to himself slowly - cosied under a duvet and snuggled against Aziraphale who, by the way, smelled absolutely delicious. The cloying sweetness of honey, sliced with sex, wrapped in heavy paper, but lightened with the constant freshness of expensive fabric conditioner. Crowley had to blink his eyelids more firmly shut a few times before he could open them. Ice seagreen eyes gazed back fondly.

“There you are,” Aziraphale murmured and hummed, soothingly. He let Crowley burrow back into his neck for a minute.

“Here I am.” He rasped finally.

“Is this ok?” Aziraphale rubbed his hand up and down Crowley’s back, let his fingertips trail over the knobs of his spine. “Do you need anything?”

“Just you.” Dammit, that was not what he had meant to say.

Aziraphale felt him freeze at the slip up, squeezed him tighter. “You have me, you have all of me, forever. But I meant more… a glass of water, a cup of tea, something sweet… Oh! We have those eclairs you brought earlier, should I—”

Crowley sensed the movement before it began and reflexively grabbed in a panic to keep them tangled together. Fuck.

“Right, ok. We’ll just stay here.”

Crowley would have cursed his own weakness, but Aziraphale gave such a pleased little wiggle at being wanted that much, that he really couldn’t. He just wrapped a leg over him too and tipped his head back to make eye contact. “Angel.”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” It was a lot easier to say that these days. It was even easier after being thoroughly seen to and then cuddled after.

Were those _tears_ in Aziraphale’s eyes? Of course they were, this was Aziraphale. The sparkle in his eye more often than not was being magnified by his emotional wetness. In fact, it looked like he couldn’t even speak. He just leant in and kissed instead. Soft and sentimental, lips clinging and pressing ever so gently. No acceleration or deepening, the stroke of tongue was just that - a dip and taste at the corner of Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley pulled back momentarily. “Let’s just stay here and do this.” And he went back in for more.

“Forever,” Aziraphale breathed in between kisses.

  
  
  
  



End file.
